Angel
by aliceann
Summary: Neal is imprisoned, pending an investigation into the art theft and Elizabeth's kidnapping. While there he meets someone who will change his life in the most profound and terrifying fashion, as he and Peter struggle to mend their broken relationship.
1. Chapter 1

ANGEL

Chapter 1

His head and stomach were at war, and apparently taking no prisoners. The staggering smell of bodily fluids laced with antiseptic added to this trifecta of misery. He took a deep breath and rolled onto his side in the small infirmary bed. His stomach took the first salvo when his gut clenched. Desperate to rid himself of the roiling contents in his belly, he bolted upright almost falling to the floor.

"Whoa buddy! Here, take this."

Peter held out the worn emesis basin, and Neal emptied the remainder of his dinner.

"Feel better?"

"Not really. What happened to me?"

"You got jumped by two inmates. The guards found you unconscious outside your cell. Doctor says you have some bruised ribs, a dislocated shoulder and maybe a mild concussion."

"So much for maximum security," he winced trying to find a comfortable position. Everything hurt. Suddenly his thoughts took a dark turn and his body tensed.

"Peter, was I..."

"No, no," he interjected hurriedly, sparing his partner the need to speak his fear out loud.

"I'm sorry Neal. Hughes is pulling in every favor to try and get you released."

"And?"

"While this incident might help us, he's up against Deputy Director Roark. He's never been a fan of the use of CI's and he's been very vocal in his reservations about you. The art theft, El's kidnapping …. taking down Keller made a lot of noise. There are people who still believe you stole the treasure, and Roark is at the top of that list."

"But we recovered the treasure, Elizabeth's home and Keller is doing a life sentence. What else do they want?"

"I know," Peter said wearily. This was not the time for another lecture on actions and consequences.

He was tired, bone tired. He needed to be home before dark and the thought of the commute back into the city, made his tired muscles ache. Even though Keller posed no threat to them now, he hated the idea of Elizabeth being alone after nightfall. Then there was the paperwork, mountains of submissions and fillings. Roark wanted blood. If he couldn't have Neal's, someone else would pay the price. Right now the entire white collar division was in his cross hairs. As much as he hated to admit it, it was hard getting past his anger with Neal, even harder was his disappointment. He believed he was his friend, brought him into his family. Maybe Kramer was right after all, con men and cops… a recipe for failure. He would never abandon his responsibility to Neal, but it was getting harder and harder to stay emotionally invested.

"It is what it is, Neal. It's a process and until it gets resolved and the investigation completed, our deal is suspended. I am afraid it gets worse. Warden Pederson says the word in the prison is out about your work for the FBI. You're not safe."

"Tell me about it." he swung his legs over the bed. How much worse could it get he thought, as he massaged his side and struggled to control his stomach.

"She doesn't have the resources to monitor you around the clock. And the only space that could afford any reasonable security is the solitary confinement unit."

"No, Peter! I'm not going into solitary." His breathing accelerated, as echoes of past confinements reverberated in his brain.

"We don't have any choice."

"You mean I don't have any choice."

He was angry. His life, what was left of it anyway, was not his own. Somehow it had all passed out of his hands. He couldn't remember when he had a real choice, when he was the sole decider, not Kate, not Mozzie, not Peter. Yet, he didn't have the right to protest. He crossed a line, maybe an unforgivable one. He knew the enormous betrayal everyone felt, especially the man across from him. But how long was he to be punished, was there no way back home? His head was swimming.

"Did they drug me?"

"The doctor gave you something for pain and antibiotics. He wants you to stay overnight for observation, you'll be transferred in the morning. One more thing, there is one other occupant on the unit. Ambrose Snow."

"That name sounds familiar."

"He is on a very short list of people to escape a Supermax facility."

"A man of my own liking."

"Don't get any ideas about comparing notes. Snow is dangerous. Very dangerous, Neal. He murdered his entire family, every man, woman and child. He killed several guards escaping his last Supermax, and those that lived wished they hadn't. Believe me, this was our last option."

**WCWCWCWC**

The next morning Neal was delivered to the solitary confinement unit, ostensibly for his own protection. He was shackled at his feet and waist. Two guards flanked his side. They moved down a long hallway to a booth where two other guards were stationed. A code was entered into a high tech keypad by one guard; another guard placed his eye against a retinal scanner. A huge steel door slid open, revealing two tiny cells.

The guard in the booth stepped out and approached Neal.

"This is Officer Paul and I'm Officer Riley. Warden says you'll be our guest until you get released."

Riley was tall, broad shouldered, two hundred and some pounds easily with close cut blond hair. He was obviously in control. Neal observed how the other men looked to him for clues on how to behave toward him.

"The rules are simple. You do what we tell you, when we tell you," he said sizing up the new occupant.

The door to the small cell slid open and Neal was led in, his shackles were removed. Everything was grey, grey concrete. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, even the bed was concrete. The room was 8 x 10, smaller than his bathroom at June's. There was a tiny stainless steel sink and toilet in the corner. A large steel door covered his cell; behind it was a clear plexiglas wall with a slot where meals were slid on plastic trays. There were no windows.

His despair was palpable as he stood taking in his new surroundings. Riley approached him from behind, abruptly pulling him out of his daze.

"You get two thirty minute breaks for exercise, in the yard," he motioned to his right.

For a moment Neal saw a slender opening of hope in this suffocating prison of concrete. It was only momentary, as Riley pointed to a small enclosure right off the unit. It amounted to no more than a concrete dog run. Trying not to panic, he turned to Riley to try and explain his situation.

"I think there may be a mistake. I was told this was just a protective confinement and I would still be entitled to the same privileges I had in general population. Agent Burke, my .…"

"I know who he is, and I know who you are. There are no privileges here, Neal. The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be on you."

"But …what about visiting hours?"

"Am I going to have to repeat myself?" he moved into Neal's personal space and smiled icily.

"No, Neal nodded.

"Good boy. Lunch should be here shortly." He looked to the cell across from Neal's. "Ambrose Snow is our permanent resident; no one makes contact with him. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Neal sat on the concrete bed and prayed for Peter to arrive and free him from this hell. Lost in his head, he barely heard the keypad beep. Two guards came in carrying a plastic tray with two plastic food containers. The heavy gate to Snow's unit slid open and a container was pushed in. Then the procedure was repeated at his cell as the food tray was pushed through his slot. Not sure if it was the medications, the beating he took or just plain despair taking over; the thought of eating made his stomach knot. He took the container and looked at the food, a perfect match of grey. While fingering the plate, he noticed a scrap of paper on the underside.

Waiting until the guards left, he unfolded the paper. To his astonishment there was a portrait of an angel, a glorious pre Raphaelite angel done in the most beautiful fashion after Cimabue or Duccio. He was seldom amazed by forgeries, but this was breath taking. Wrapped in the beauty of the image, he didn't hear the door slide open and Riley enter.

"Where did you get this?" Riley demanded, snatching the paper from Neal.

Before he could offer any explanation, Riley pulled him to his feet like a rag doll, backing him against the wall. His meaty red face inches from Neal's, rancid breath coming in quick bursts. He tightened his hands around his throat. Neal's pulse beat wildly under his rough grip, as he thrashed and struggled against the bigger man. His eyes bulged and watered, he gasped for breath. Riley squeezed harder until his pulse slowed and slowed. His brilliant blue eyes almost inky black, his pupils impossibly dilated and fixing, his body went limp.

"Riley!" the other guard shouted.

"Man let go, you're killing him!" he moved to intervene.

"Touch me again and I swear to God…" he swung toward the other man.

Distracted momentarily, he released his murderous grip. Neal staggered forward with a convulsive exhalation. Giant ragged breaths sucked in and out as his chest heaved. Riley wasn't done. He grabbed his battered shoulder, spun him against the wall pinning his arm behind him. He couldn't scream. The force of Riley's two hundred and fifty pound frame against his back emptied the air from his lungs. Riley's cheek was next to his, his hot breath on his neck, hips grinding against his body. He held the portrait of the angel with his free hand up for Neal to see. His voice low and filed with menace.

"Fuck with me one more time and I will tear you apart. We clear on that?"

Neal nodded desperately, his voice strangled with panic and pain. He was fighting to stay conscious. Riley said nothing. Just moved away, turned to the door and left. The other guard followed. Neal heard the keypad beep and knew the unit was closed. The room went silent. He closed his eyes and collapsed.

**WCWCWCWC**

He had no idea how long he'd been out. Struggling to his feet, he barely made it to the small sink. His chest was on fire and his entire body felt warmer than it should. He splashed his face. The coldness of the water helped. He staggered to the spartan bed and sat, running his hands along his side trying to assess the damage to his bruised and battered body.

He was sitting on the edge of the small bed, staring at the wall unaware of how much time had passed. The stench of Riley's cheap cologne still on his skin. He felt naked and ashamed. He waited and waited…. for Peter. It was not so much that he depended entirely now on Peter for his survival that unanchored him, as much as that he needed him. He did everything he asked. He risked his life. He tried to disconnect himself from his past, from his previous self. Now that there was nothing left but a jumble of parts and pieces, how did he put himself together again? He didn't know how. The keypad beeped.

"Peter, thought you would never come…."

"I was detained by Warden Pederson, do you know why? Cleaning up your messes, as usual," he huffed.

Not giving Neal a chance to respond, he launched into an angry tirade. His face filled with anger and resentment.

"She wants to boot you off the unit, for aiding and abetting Snow. This gives Roark all the ammunition he needs. I ask you to do one thing. One thing, Neal. Do you think this is some game, one of your little cons? God! Ambrose Snow is not your friend, he's a monster. The warden's filling a report with the Bureau."

Peter was pacing the small unit, so angry he couldn't bring himself to look at Neal.

"Peter it's not what you think… "

"It never is, Neal. That's the problem." He was standing with his back to Neal, looking across toward the sealed metal door to Snow's unit.

"Just let me explain, please."

"Stop, he held up his hand. No more excuses, Neal. I can't believe your selfishness. The entire division is at risk. Reese's reputation, his leadership is being questioned. This could go in Diana and Clinton's permanent record. My job is hanging by a thread. Do you even care? Do you? I can't keep doing this, putting the things and people I care about in danger for you."

"Peter, I'm sorry."

Confused and hurt more than he could have ever imagined, he looked down at the floor. He wanted to mount an argument against Peter, but nothing came. There was no fight left in him.

"Maybe I'm hurting you more than helping you. Asking you to be someone you can't. I think when this is over; maybe you should get another handler, Neal."

He felt as if he had been stabbed. It was an excruciating pain thrusting down between his shoulder blades, compressing his lungs making it hard to breathe. He wanted to cry but he wouldn't. He felt sick and bewildered. Didn't Peter understand the love and loyalty he felt for him? He gazed at the floor, vision dulled. First Kate, then Mozzie and now Peter. He was alone. His body trembled slightly.

The silence was deafening as both men processed the moment. Peter finally turned to face Neal, assured he'd won the struggle to maintain his resolve. Instantly his face turned from resentment and mistrust to concern, as he saw what rough shape the younger man was in.

"Neal, look at me. What happened to you?"

Neal slowly lifted his head, the purple and blue marks lining his neck and jaw, stood in stark comparison to the pallor of his face, his eyes bloodshot from petechial hemorrhaging.

"Jesus, Neal. Who did this to you?" he moved toward him.

"Don't, he pulled back from his touch. Peter was caught off guard.

"I'll be OK. Go home Peter," he said quietly.

"Neal, I can't leave you like this."

The keypad beeped, and the night guard entered. "Sorry agent Burke, your time is up."

"What happened to this man?" he snarled.

"Sir, you'll have to take that up with Warden Pederson. Right now, step out of the unit."

"I need to see her, now!" he demanded.

"Sir, Warden Pederson won't be in until tomorrow morning. Are we going to have a problem? Please step out of the unit."

"Neal, I'll be back tomorrow. I promise you," a visibly shaken Peter tried to make contact with his friend.

"I'm tired Peter. I just want to sleep now."

As Peter was escorted away, Neal turned in his small bed faced the wall of his cell and let the world shrink away.

**WCWCWCWC**

He awoke from a fitful sleep, with the sound of the heavy steel door to the unit sliding open. The lights remained on twenty-four seven, but it was dark. This was his first indication something was wrong, terribly wrong. He heard footsteps, maybe three or four men moving quickly. The way they maneuvered in the dark told him they had done this before. His heart was hammering in his chest, as he struggled to remain still. Then the door of Snow's unit slid open and he could hear the unmistakable sound of Riley's voice.

"So Ambrose, you like to play games. You like showing off, showing how clever and smart you are. Right? What's that? Cat's got your tongue?"

The room filled with laughter as one of the other men removed the mouth guard from the shackled prisoner's face. Ambrose Snow sat motionless, his face arranged in an almost serene mask.

"Let's play a game, Ambrose. I'm no fancy art thief and forger like your boyfriend next door, but I enjoy a work of beauty just like the next guy. Recognize this?"

Riley pulled from his pocket the portrait of the angel Snow had passed to Neal. Snow sat impassively, giving no acknowledgment of Riley's gesture.

"No? You're blood sugar must be down, probably hungry from missing lunch today."

He took a stun gun from his belt and placed it against Snow's thigh causing him to involuntarily gasp. He then forced the crumpled portrait of the Angel into his mouth. The other men swarmed in and held Snow, as Riley ripped one sheath after another from Snow's sketch book and crammed them down his throat. Snow's eyes jammed wide and the veins in his neck bulged and wriggled like giant worms.

"Now, let's have some real fun." He slammed the stun gun into Snow's gut, sending him toppling to the floor, as the men punched and kicked at him.

Neal placed his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sounds. He knew that Riley left the door open for him to hear. He wanted an audience. A further warning of his complete control and power over him.

"OK, get him up! Now for dessert."

Riley was red faced and panting. He put his hands on his belt and slowly unbuckled it. He unzipped his pants. He smiled.

The sound was unmistakable to Neal, even mixed in with the noise of three men breathing hard. He felt so helpless, so impotent, as the guards took turns with Snow.

After what seemed an eternity, he heard the heavy door to Snow's unit close. The footsteps approached his cell and stopped. He could feel Riley's cold stare on his body. He was hyperventilating, his hands shaking badly. Then they moved away, the keypad beeped and everything went silent again. Snow was not the only monster there.

Peter asked if he had ever hit rock bottom. As tears rivered down his cheeks in the dark, he could barely contain the sobs racking his body. He had hit rock bottom.

He slept off and on, in a dreamless oblivion. As he tossed and turned, he thought he heard voices. Afraid he was losing his mind, he strained in the dark to hear and then it came to him, a faint whisper.

"I've been waiting for you."


	2. Chapter 2

**ANGEL**

**Author's note:**

_I am truly sorry if I'__ve upset or offended anyone__ with some of the themes in this story. It was not my intention. I thought the T rating covered the use of language, violence and mature themes. In retrospect I see how that generic warning may not be sufficient. I wanted to try my hand at something a little darker than I usually write. In the future, I will add a line at the outset, if there ar__e depictions of__ graphic violence (torture) or other possibly unsettling scenes. Apologies.__ White Collar is the property of the incredible Jeff Eastin._

**Chapter 2**

Neal woke to the sounds of breakfast being served. A greasy meal container pushed through his slot. His body throbbed, his chest wheezed slightly when he exhaled. He sat up in the small bed, rubbed hard at his bloodshot eyes. Convinced this was no dream, he let out a deep breath …. as deep as aching ribs permitted. He hadn't eaten in over a day. Survival dictated he maintain his strength. He took the container. The door to the neighboring cell slid open.

The smell of piss and puke overtook the small enclosure, sending the tenuous grip on his stomach spiraling out of control. He staggered to the small sink, so much for breakfast. As he leaned over the steel basin, he could hear a flurry of activity at Snow's cell. The duty guards spoke in muted tones in the operation booth as the keypad beeped. Two other guards entered with a gurney quickly heading into the small cell. Neal moved closer to the plexiglas wall to get a better look.

"What's going on?" he asked tentatively.

"Nothing that concerns you. Now stand back from the wall."

He moved back several steps, as the guards brought Snow out strapped to the gurney. Heavy leather restraints bound his chest, waist and legs. It took some effort to maneuver the gurney in the small space, jostling Snow's body back and forth. Finally as they moved passed, Snow's head lolled to the side. His pale green eyes, locked onto Neal's. It was only for a second but he thought he saw his reflection mirrored in those glassy orbs. He stepped back involuntarily. Then they were gone.

In the haste to take Snow, the heavy steel door was left open. Neal inched further and further toward the open space until he stopped in his tracks. On Snow's wall was the most glorious depiction of Cimabue's crucifixion. Astonishing in its beauty and realism, it took his breath away; that and the pool of blood on the floor. .

**WCWCWCWCWC**

It wasn't visitor's day. He pulled up behind a grey Ford Escort in visitor's parking. He'd been promised the first available appointment with the Warden. Filled with anger and outrage he strode across the prison yard and flashed his badge at the gate. Once inside, he was escorted down a long hallway to the warden's office. He really wanted to punch something. Sounds of a heated exchange were coming from behind closed doors; maybe somebody had beaten him to it. Peter took a seat on the small wooden bench. Moments later an earsplitting siren filled the cramp space. The warden and a young woman emerged.

"I'm sorry Agent Burke, I have an emergency situation. You're welcome to wait if you want."

She vanished back into her office.

"You bet your ass I'm going to wait," Peter mumbled under his breath.

"Hi, Laura White," the younger woman reached her hand to the obviously upset man on the bench next to her.

"Not the best way to start off the morning."

"Agent Peter Burke, FBI. I couldn't help overhearing you discussing Ambrose Snow," he returned the handshake.

"I'm with the Convention Against Torture. We represent Ambrose Snow. And what brings you out so early this morning?"

"My CI, Neal Caffrey, was placed in solitary with Snow for protective confinement. He was attacked in the general population two days ago. If you don't mind, has something happened on the unit?

"That's what I am trying to determine. We were called this morning that Ambrose was taken to the prison infirmary. Standing orders are anytime that happens an investigation is initiated."

"I'm taking it this is not the first time."

"Ambrose is a high profile case because of the nature of his crimes and he killed a guard in his last escape. He is feared and despised, by inmates and guards alike. Unfortunately, Ambrose's case is not the only one we've investigated here. Warden Pederson has a pretty spotty record when it comes to policing her staff against abuse of the inmates. She takes don't ask don't tell to a whole new level."

A look of guilt passed across Peter's face. It sickened him to think what might have happened to Neal on that unit. But worse was the nagging part he may have played in it. When the decision came down to pull Neal's deal with him, house arrest was on the table. He was silent. He thought it would do him good to be back behind these prison walls. Make him think about the trusts he had squandered. Maybe confronted with the ugliness of prison he would consider the ugliness of his actions. But a darker feeling of revenge and punishment sat at the door to his heart. He wanted him punished for what he put him through. Not only on account of Elizabeth and the department. He risked everything for him and he discarded the love he felt for him like a cheap suit. Neal was no pretender to virtue but it was his moral code that was in question now. Could he have done more? Should he have done more to protect him? Damn Neal Caffrey.

"Are you OK, Agent Burke?

"Yeah," he closed his lids slightly as if it would shield him against the picture of the broken man in his head. I know some of the story behind Snow. What exactly happened?"

"Ambrose Snow is a delusional psychotic. It first manifested in childhood. His parents sought out every possible treatment short of institutionalization. Snow Sr. was heir to the family's shipping fortune and no expense was spared. As his condition deteriorated, they were able to conceal and then buy off problems with their fortune."

"And the murders?"

"It's still somewhat of a mystery. But what we have been able to piece together is that after having returned from an extended stay in Europe, some would say exile, the entire family met to welcome Ambrose home. At that dinner, Ambrose poisoned his parents, his sister, brother in law and their two young children. Then he set the house afire."

"I remember reading some of the details, about four years ago."

"What didn't come out was he used a curare derived poison. It effectively paralyzed his victims, but they were fully aware, fully conscious…. able to feel. The forensic report indicated they burned alive."

"Nice guy," Peter ran his hand through his hair. He could feel sweat forming on his scalp.

"I'm not offering any excuses for Ambrose's behavior. Hell, I can barely wrap my ahead around what he did. But he is still a human being, a prisoner here and deserving of the protection of the law. Everyone deserves that, even the worst criminal."

"So what did your CI do? Why are you here?"

"He was accused of aiding and abetting Snow."

"How? Ambrose hadn't been out of that cell in four years. Have you seen that unit? It's impossible for him to interact with anyone. The rules stipulate he gets two thirty minute periods for exercise and interaction, but those have been systematically denied. The warden says she doesn't have the resources it would take to monitor him."

"He passed a picture of an angel to my CI."

"That's not good."

"What do you mean?"

"Ambrose is obsessed with angels. By all accounts he is a highly talented artist and began showing great promise as a child, considered a prodigy by some in the art world. He said an angel came to him when he was nine years old. That's about the time the mania began. He became fixated with flight, wings and the legend of angels. He didn't sleep. He drew hundreds of sketches of birds. The first recommendation for institutionalization came after he was found having removed and dissected the wings of several birds on the family estate. They were alive at the time."

Peter's gut lurched as Warden Pederson stepped from her office.

"We have a riot, a guard has been injured. The prison is officially under lockdown. No one goes in or out of here until further notice."

**WCWCWCWCWCWC**

The guards were mopping down Snow's cell. Wiping away all traces of the brutality that occurred overnight. Neal sat starring into the empty space. His chest felt tight and the wheezing happened when he inhaled as well as exhaled now.

"Is he coming back? He asked the guard leaving Snow's cell.

The guard didn't reply.

"Do you think I can take my thirty minute exercise break?" He was desperate to be anywhere but there. He thought if he moved his body, got his blood circulating, he might feel better.

"Officer Riley said I get two a day."

"Yeah, I don't see why not."

When the guard returned, he fitted Neal with the leg and waist restraints and escorted him to the small cage enclosure. He was surprised how weak he was. A few steps and he felt winded. He forced himself to keep moving. His thoughts drifted to Peter and their last conversation. He had finally exhausted the faith he had in him, worn out his usefulness to the team. All the ties that bound him, all snapped. He hoped against hope Peter would make good on his promise to return, but time was running out. When the guards brought him back to his cell, Riley was waiting.

"You haven't eaten much Neal," he motioned to the barely touched meal container.

"Don't have much of an appetite."

"You have to keep up your strength now. You look like a man that takes care of himself, works out" he stared at Neal.

"My chest hurts a bit. The doctor said they were going to continue the antibiotics and pain meds."

"I don't see anything on your orders about it."

"Could you just check it, please?"

"What did we say about special privileges, Neal?" He smiled and turned away looking at Snow's empty cell.

He was going to have to find a way to survive this on his own. But right now he felt so utterly depleted, so tired. He retreated back into himself. He slept.

His eyes slowly drifted open. The sound of the guards taking away the meal containers, gave him some clue to what time it was. Peter hadn't come. He sat up on the hard bed. The door to Snow's unit was open. Ambrose Snow was seated and watching him intently.

"Did I wake you?" he asked

Neal didn't answer. He looked about quickly for the guards. The consequence of his last unintended interaction with Snow, still seared into his brain. His face flushed.

"I don't mean to upset you. I am Ambrose Snow; I don't think we've been introduced."

Snow was in his late forties, a full head of thick dark hair mingled with gray. His eyes were a startling green, set in an angular intelligent face. It would have been handsome, save for the jagged scar running from his right temple to just under his eye. The other side of his face was horribly bruised and swollen from the beating he suffered last night at the hands of Riley and his men. He sat without emotion, without despair and patiently waited for a response.

Neal was still hesitant to speak. This bridge of communication was studded with landmines. He could still feel Riley's hands cuffing his neck. Yet his fascination was leading him to surrender the caution he knew was needed. He coughed and cleared his throat.

"Neal Caffrey." he offered.

"May, I call you Neal?"

Snow could hardly breathe; he felt an awe so deeply. Neal Caffrey perhaps was more beautiful than the first time he saw him.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**ANGEL**

**Chapter 3**

**Four years earlier**

He stepped barefoot onto the balcony, as the sun was setting over the eastern part of the old city. The cathedral glittered like a jewel in the last golden rays of light. The view was spectacular. He was already missing it, when he spotted her walking along the narrow cobbled street winding toward the hotel.

Alex Hunter was a ceaseless puzzle to him. She was a modern woman, frighteningly adept with the latest high tech inventions, yet able to effortlessly adapt to any style and any time. In the fading light of the Tuscany sun, she looked as if she could have been right at home in the golden age of Florence .

Her long chestnut hair flowed in the light breeze, gently caressing her face. A Botticelli face with almond eyes. Her arms tanned and bare, filled with the makings of a traditional evening supper. She wore a long indigo skirt that stopped just before her ankles, it moved in the wind such that it gave her the effect of floating. She was perfection.

He watched as she disappeared down the long alley leading to the entrance of the Bagnioli. The small bed and breakfast sat in the vast shadow of the Ufizzi, it's neighbor to the left. Neal moved happily toward the door as her footsteps sounded on the landing. Alex's arms were laden with the spoils of her trip to the small tratorria a few meters away.

"You went shopping," he smiled as he took the bottle of wine and satchels from her hands.

The intoxicating smell of freshly baked bread wafted up to the ornately carved wooden ceilings, as he began to empty the satchels. Fresh fruit, cheeses, olives and prosciutto spread across his makeshift table.

"I thought we would stay in tonight and run through the plans before tomorrow," she smiled back.

This was the Alex he loved. She was never more beautiful than when scheming. He laughed and leaned in toward her. With one hand he inhaled the still warm bread, the other he slipped round her waist.

"You've made me an offer, I can't refuse. May I suggest we start with dessert?" his luminous eyes sparkled with a playful mischief.

He pulled her in closer. She turned away slightly, making him search out her lips. His mouth on hers finally, she pressed his body against hers. Her voice fell to a whisper.

"Caffrey, you always break the rules."

"Guilty as charged."

His smile deepened as he ran his fingers along her jawline, down her throat and across the curve of her bare shoulder. His hands were strong and warm. His lips soft and vaguely orange scented, moved over her body. She shuddered under his touch. Soft moans of invitation hung in the warm night air.

She ran her hands under his shirt, deftly slipping it off. His chest was smooth and muscled, she could feel his heart beat speed up. She kissed him so deeply, so hungrily, as if she had never kissed anyone in her life. Neal's hands slid down to her waist, undid the clasp of her skirt. It fell to her feet in a sea of shimmering indigo, along with all her customary defenses against him. He put his feet between hers and pushed her legs apart.

"Step," he said. Then he hoisted her up as she curled her long legs around his hips.

"Bed or here?" he purred.

"Bed. We're going to need the room," she purred back.

He carried her the four feet to the large poster bed and tossed her onto the mattress. What followed was a roller coaster ride of sex, desire and more sex. Spent and giddily exhausted they layed naked in the moonlight. She wanted to be with him, to make him laugh. She turned toward him and placed her hand on his belly as he lay sprawled next to her.

"I'm famished. How about you?" he said.

"I could eat."

They rolled out of bed and began sorting out the goodies from Alex's shopping trip. Neal set the the small coffee table as Alex dressed by the light of the candles he lit. He sat cross legged on the floor across from her as she settled down to join him.

"I walked the route to the train station twice today, it's 330 yards. It will take me 10 minutes. Once I trip the alarm and initiate the diversion, you'll have two minutes exactly to get to the roof."

Neal finished the last of the melon and reached over to pour another glass of wine. She placed her hand over his glass.

"We need to have our heads clear in the morning."

"Don't worry, I have this."

"Neal, timing is everything. Details are our friend, just the slightest hitch, a delayed reflex and..."

"Let me worry about that," he flashed that megawatt smile.

But worry she did. Lately he had been impulsive, almost reckless. There had always been a wildness about him, an exuberant abandon just beneath the well polished facade he wore to perfection. It's what drew her to him. But when it came to business he was a machine, a precision instrument, no room for error and carelessness. He was a different man since Kate.

"You weren't the only one who worked today," he offered.

"Really. I didn't think anything could drag you away from the Cimabue collection. How many Madonna's can you take in, in one day?"

"You should have come with me. One of them really reminded me of you," he ran his fingers over her hand.

"Seriously, Caffrey."

"Seriously. I was sampling the weather. It's going to be a little cooler tomorrow than was expected; it affects the thermals and wind velocity. I factored that in and made some adjustments. For the hang glider to get the lift I need and sustain it for a cross country flight; I have to lose the chute."

"And when were you going to tell me?"

"I'm telling you now," he smiled crookedly.

"Did you fall and hit your head while I was gone? Without that parachute, if anything goes wrong you have no backup. You could..."

"But it won't."

"I say we wait. We could stay here..." she said softly.

"I need this. We go tomorrow," he said flatly.

"Why?" The Giotto is on permanent loan. We have the time. Why hurry and risk this?"

His face flushed momentarily, before he could school his expression. There it was. It was about Kate she thought. Everything always come back to her.

"This is about Kate, isn't it?"

"Don't do this."

"You don't do this. Tell me it's not about Kate, some plan to impress her... some harebrained scheme to get her attention."

"You called me Alex, you came to me."

"You wanted to come. Tell me you didn't."

"We made a deal. You help me get the Giotto. I help you get the music box."

"But not if it kills you."

"I didn't know you cared." He immediately regretted saying it, especially as he saw the tears form in her eyes.

That was her problem, she loved a man who would never truly be hers. Kate would be his undoing and she couldn't, she wouldn't be around to see it.

"Please, let's not fight," he said gently.

He moved closer to her and took her in his arms.

"Trust me, everything will turn out just as we planned."

**WCWCWCWCWCWC**

**Across Town**

Ambrose Snow was on his fourth sketch book of the night. Stacks and stacks filled the tiny room he took a week ago. There was hardly room to move, books littered the tables, chairs and small bed. He didn't need them. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He came to Florence for Cimabue, for his angels. Cimabue understood their true nature, their sorrow and triumph.

He could barely breathe earlier as he stood before them today in the great halls of the Ufizzi. A screaming pressure built in his head. It was all too familiar. The sounds of angels wings.

He was making his way through the crowded halls of the great museum. His body powered by a divine will. Surrounded by clueless ignorants, unaware of their true destiny. He was the fortunate one, his purpose laid before him when he was but a boy. What did any of them know of the great wings of God's angels. They lived beneath them, were blind to the glory of paradise, cursed to live an eternity devoid of their beauty.

The sounds were often overwhelming, stealing away his equilibrium. He knew they were close. Chaos enveloped him. He tried to steady himself, to focus. It's when he saw him. Standing so still, before the Madonna. He came everyday to that same spot and stood before her. It was a sign, a gift. He was one of them.

He was working feverishly on his sketches now. He was meant to know him. He tried to hold his image in his mind, make it cohere. Yet each time it splintered into a thousand pieces. Tomorrow, he would find him tomorrow.

**WCWCWCWCWC**

Everything was in place. Alex triggered the alarm right on schedule and should have been half way to Santa Maria Novella Train Station. He had the Giotto in hand and was steps away from the rooftop of the west hall. Adrenaline fueled his steps as he made record time. Neal didn't see the man following him. He slipped into the harness. Clouds moved across the sun and the light dimmed momentarily. He waited.

Ambrose's head was pounding as made it to the roof. He could hear the wings, just as he had when he was nine years old. Great swooping sounds piercing his brain. He had finally come back for him. The angel's face was both beautiful and terrifying. He felt an immense relief. His torment and punishment would soon be ended. He would be purified and transformed to an angel.

"I remember you," he screamed to the figure perched on the ledge.

Startled, Neal turned just as the sun broke through the clouds with a burning intensity. The light behind him was blinding as he launched himself into space, soaring, arched toward heaven. He did it. He circled over the city, past the Ponte Vecchio and the shimmering banks of the Arno and eventually the vast Tuscan plains. Ambrose Snow fell to his knees.

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**ANGEL**

**Chapter 4**

**The Present**

"May I call you Neal?"

"Please. Can I ask how you're being allowed to speak to me?"

"Why of course. When I returned from the infirmary, I found my privileges had been restored. Although… I won't be exercising anytime soon."

He motioned to the large bandage covering his right thigh.

"I assure you it's perfectly legal to speak to me."

"How long have your privileges been suspended?"

"Shortly after I got here, four years give or take. So you see I'm a little eager for conversation. You'll forgive me."

"How do you stand it and stay..."

"Sane? Indeed. I have my paints, my sketchbooks."

"I couldn't help but see the painting on your wall when they took you this morning,

Cimabue's Crucifixion."

"Yes."

"How did you do that, if you don't mind me asking? You have no brushes, no pictures?"

"Inspiration, I guess."

"It's flawless, absolutely stunning in the detail. I have an eye for these things. I've seen the original and I can't tell them apart."

"You paint?" Ambrose's voice ticked up a bit.

"I did."

"You mustn't give up your passions."

"It wasn't a choice." Neal said with a small ghost of a frown.

"May I ask you a personal question?"

"OK."

"Who is Kate?"

"What?"

"Kate. You talk in your sleep."

"She was my girlfriend."

"Past now?"

"Yes, very."

"I take it Kate's dead. Did you love her?"

"From the moment I saw her."

"Did she love you?"

"Eventually. I am sorry, but what has my girlfriend to do with anything?"

"You would have caused her so much pain. Her death freed you, freed you from the ordinary; the ordinary excesses of love. As long as she drew breath you would never be free."

"You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know me."

"But I do. In time you will come to understand your true self, your true beauty. You've been lost."

The accusation stunned him, it was cruel. It had taken him all this time to come to think of Kate not with guilt, but with regret.

"Who are you? What do you want? Exactly."

The sounds of footsteps approached as Riley entered.

"Sorry to break up this touching brotherly bonding. So has Ambrose told you about his true self? No? I didn't think so. Tell Neal how you flambéed your family. How you poured an accelerant over your three and five year old nieces and then burned them alive, he grinned. You've got one minute boys and chat time is up."

Neal's skin crawled. His face already flush from the fever taking over his body, took on a faint sheen as beads of sweat erupted. He felt light headed. Ambrose made no notice of Riley and continued to look at Neal holding him under those cold green eyes.

"Better murder an infant in its cradle than nurse an unacted desire. You will come to understand."

A mad man was quoting Blake to him, his chest hurt and the nausea was back with a vengeance. Peter had apparently second thoughts on helping him. He just wanted to sleep now.

"Are you in pain?"

"I don't feel well. I think I'm going to lie down now."

"Pain can be clarifying."

"Just one more thing. I know what happened to you last night. Why did you give me the angel? You knew what Riley would do to you."

"Yes."

"But that's what you wanted. You knew if you went to the infirmary, if you were injured they would reinstate your privileges. You orchestrated this entire thing, my being here. "Why?"

"Some pains are worth the sacrifice, Neal."

**WCWCWCWC**

"How are you holding up?" Hughes asked him.

Peter had taken the chair across from him. He was visibly tired, dark circles under his eyes, looked as if he hadn't slept.

"I've been a hell of a lot better."

"How's Elizabeth?"

"Better than I expected. It scares me frankly. She's the strongest person I know. Instead of concentrating on herself, she's more concerned with me and …. Neal. Have you heard anything from the DA?"

"Not yet. I gather they are a bit confused by this turn around in our position on Caffrey. We took house arrest off the table, remember. It was your call."

"I let my feelings get in the way of my better judgment. I was wrong. I wanted revenge, not justice."

"And now? What do you want now?"

"I don't know Reese. But I know I can't let Neal be tortured or worse. You didn't see him…"

"I'm not happy that Caffrey is back in prison. I won't put a man's life at risk. But, Peter I'm talking to you now as a friend. I can't protect you. I'm not sure of my own position. Roark has wanted control of the division for a long time, this is his opening."

Hughes stood and walked to the door, ran his hand through his hair; his face filled with concern and a grim determination.

"If I can get Caffrey on house arrest, and that's a big if. Can we trust him again? Trust him not to run?"

"He has nowhere to go," Peter looked down at his hands.

It's what he had wanted. Right? For Neal to give up his previous life, his previous contacts….his previous self. Why did it all feel so hollow, so terribly wrong then? His head and his heart were in a battle, he felt tired.

"Are you, OK?" Hughes asked him.

"I'm fine. Do it."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Peter headed out into the corridor to his office. Diana poked her head in.

"Boss, what's the word?"

"Reese is doing everything he can. But something's just not right."

"You have a theory?"

"Not yet," he refilled his coffee cup and twirled the sugar packet absentmindedly.

He couldn't get the image of a desperate and frightened Neal out of his head.

"I know it's not like having Caffrey in the room, but you want to speculate?"

"I'm sorry Diana. Thanks. I could definitely use your help, couldn't ask for better."

"Where do we start?" she asked him.

"Neal gets jumped outside his cell and ends up in the infirmary."

"Of course no one sees or hears anything, but it takes him out of the general population," she offers.

"Yes, the first step to isolating him. Then he's transferred to solitary confinement, for his own protection ostensibly."

"Right, further isolating him. With the prison shutdown the isolation is complete. But why? If the intent was to kill him that could have easier been done in gen pop."

"Yeah, but what if the intent was not to harm him?"

"But you saw him, and he was hurt Peter."

"That's the part I don't get."

"Maybe that wasn't part of the original plan? You said Warden Pederson runs a pretty bad operation. But in reality most prisons are run by the inmates. It's all about access and access is all about money. With the right incentive anything is possible in there. Follow the money."

"Ambrose Snow is a multibillionaire," Peter shuddered.

**WCWCWCWC**

He was losing track of time. Not sure what day it was, he spent most of his time sleeping when he could. His chest hurt and the congestion in his lungs made breathing hard. He wasn't sure if his light headedness was second to lack of oxygen or food. He couldn't bring himself to eat as hard as he tried. Mostly untouched food containers were stacking up on his slot.

Then there was the matter of Ambrose Snow. What did he want with him? He decided it was best to avoid both he and Riley as much as humanly possible. Maybe Peter hadn't given up on his promise. He had Elizabeth to take care of, and Roark to contend with…..maybe. So he slept.

It was morning apparently. He could tell by the sickening smell of the greasy sausage patty and what passed as hash browns filling his cell. The steel door to Ambrose's cell was already open.

He sat up on the side of his bed and began to finger the lid of the small container of juice. It's pretty much what he had existed on since he came there. Coffee burned his throat and made his stomach cramp terribly. He didn't hear Riley enter.

"You're making our chef look bad, Neal. Come on, you don't want to do that. It's not what you're accustomed to I am sure, but he works so hard." He drummed his fingers over the unopened meal container.

"I don't have much of an appetite."

"Well you just have to try harder," pushing the container toward Neal.

"I did, I just can't."

"Now that's not the right attitude. Let's try it again. Open up. That's it, just take a bite."

Neal tried to take a bite of the hash browns; it felt like sandpaper against his inflamed throat and esophagus. He knew it would soon be followed by unbearable cramping. Riley was towering over him. His hands began to shake slightly as he tried to take in more of the food.

"I can't," he tried to protest.

"Eat it," Riley demanded.

He swallowed hard, gulping down as much of the food as he could. It settled in his stomach like a lump of burning coal. Just the act itself left him winded and exhausted, mild beads of sweat formed on his face.

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it? See what happens if you don't resist. We wouldn't want to have to force feed you. Now would we?"

Riley looked over to Ambrose who was seated and watching from his cell, with a knowing grin. Ambrose could see the mixture of panic and pain that came across the younger man's face.

Neal tried to manage the rising tide of bile and puke churning in his stomach. He didn't want to give Riley the satisfaction. He called out to him with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Agent Burke said he planned to visit me. Have you had any word from him?"

"No one's coming, Neal. For lunch I want to see a clean plate." He smiled and left.

"Why do you place such blind faith in Agent Burke?" Ambrose asked him. "Why squander your gifts on those that can't appreciate them? He can't save you. He's the one who put you here."

He felt sick and angry. He wanted to mount an argument against Snow's accusations. But he felt trapped, as if in a dark room with a door just outside his reach. Snow's madness felt like a weight on his chest.

"I put myself in here and I don't have any gifts. You're wrong about me," Neal said wearily. You're wrong about Peter. He saved me and I deceived him."

"Everyone lies, everyone deceives. Some… all the time. Those most at risk are self deceivers," Ambrose sighed with a trace of exhaustion in his voice. You use your Agent Burke, just as you used Kate. You know what you are. False contrition does not suit you. They are beneath you, beneath betrayal. He is not worthy of you."

"Stop it. I'm not doing this with you," there was a slight tremble in his voice.

"You wake up each morning in despair, feeling hopeless; searching for some truth you think will free you now. Sated with all the material world has to offer, it soon is not enough. You think the bonds of love and loyalty will save you. Cling as you might, it is not in your true nature. Eventually you snap them one by one."

"Shut up! You don't know what you are talking about."

"Eventually you will renounce this world. Free yourself of Burke and all like him, posers, pretenders to virtue and truth."

"What, and join up with you? You're a murderer! You killed your entire family."

Ambrose closed his eyes and leaned forward almost imperceptibly. He pressed his head against the plexiglass wall. He was still for a moment as if waiting for something. Then the great swooping of wings rang in his ears and a gleam of ardor filled his eyes.

"Yes, for you."

"You're insane," Neal struggled to find his voice as a small shiver ran down his spine.

He turned away from the plexiglass wall as he felt the strength ebbing away from his body. He could feel those cold green eyes continuing to stare at him, almost touching his skin. He tried to read, but couldn't focus as his vision went in and out. Lunch passed, as well as both exercise periods. Neither Riley or the other guards had come into hassle him, he felt relieved and grateful. It hurt to breathe and the small shivers had turned to big as they rippled through his body. He needed medication, something was wrong. He needed help.

How much time had passed, he had no idea. The steel doors slid open. First to his cell and then to Ambrose's. Officer Paul let the guards in with dinner. He regretted losing his temper earlier. Ambrose Snow was obviously a sick man, doubly victimized by his delusions and the inhumanity of this concrete hell. Yet there was a certain amount of honesty in his madness, and he had let it get to him. That was dangerous. He needed to concentrate on survival now. He sat silently contemplating the unopened food container.

Ambrose broke the silence.

"I am not a barbarian. I didn't mean to upset you earlier. Please accept my apologies."

"I wasn't my best either. Sorry about what I said earlier. I'm just not feeling well," he coughed slightly.

"I can see. It is difficult to see you struggle against the natural order of things. Guilt, regret and shame, those things are fine for men. You seek relief from the extraordinary. Why?"

He wasn't sure if he was even real to Ambrose.

'What did you mean when you said you did it for me?"

"I believe in a divine cruelty, a god of punishment and cruel will. I was chosen to be punished and purified and through my suffering transformed. Every human bond, every tie must be severed if I am to enter into your universe. But you know this. You were sent to me."

"By who, Ambrose?"

"By God. My relation to him is in my service to you. Something you will come to accept in time, as you regain your rightful place."

Neal could not help but laugh, as much as it pained his battered ribs. The irony was too much too bear. He, Neal Caffrey invested with the moral authority of God. Yet he was strangely moved by Ambrose's admission of suffering and his pursuit of truth, a world of fidelity. He had no defense for what he was, the lies upon lies, the forgeries and fictions he thought so necessary. He couldn't stake claim to madness. Yet he was struggling too, for a truth that always seemed to elude him.

"You think I'm mad?"

"Mistaken," Neal's eyes filled with sympathy.

"Ambrose, listen to me. You're confused. I'm not who you think I am. You need to accept the truth about me. I am a man filled with regret and shame. The things I've done, choices I've made, bad gambles…the people I hurt. I have no choice but to believe in the possibility of redemption. Life without forgiveness would be hell, but needless suffering can't be the answer. I think we have suffered enough"

The keypad hummed as the last digit was struck. Officer Paul entered the unit and approached Neal's cell. He looked apprehensive, shaking his head slightly.

"Listen Caffrey. I think you should eat something."

"I've tried. I am sick. I really need medication."

"Don't say I didn't warn you." He moved to take the container.

Riley appeared almost out of nowhere, surveying the closed container in the other officer's grip.

"Neal, why do you insist on resisting my help?"

"I'm not resisting. If I could get my medication, I'm sure my appetite would come back;" he tried to bargain with Riley.

"You have to give something to get something." Riley instructed the other guard to return the container back to Neal.

Ambrose watched intently as the drama unfolded across the unit.

"If I might make a suggestion Neal, try the applesauce. Apples have remarkable healing properties I' m told."

"Stay out of this Ambrose, unless you want another night visit."

"Ok, Ok," Neal said breathing hard. He took a swallow of the applesauce and then forced down the entire container. His heart beat sped up and moments later he felt his throat begin to close. He tried to stand.

"I need some air."

"Sit back down Caffrey. Stop resisting..."

"I'm not…

He placed his hand on the concrete wall in a futile attempt to steady himself. His knees were barely holding him up. Suddenly he couldn't move. He couldn't do anything. He felt his body fall to the floor.

"Caffrey, you think this little stunt is going to work. Get up, I said GET THE HELL UP!"

Officer Paul reached for his radio.

"I don't think he is faking this. I' m calling it in," as Neal's' eyes rolled back in his head and his body convulsed.

**WCWCWCWC**

It had been a very long day as Peter sat down to his dinner table. The smell of El's lasagna was as comforting as the sight of her feeling at home in her kitchen. It had taken a while for her to claim ownership of that space since the kidnapping. It seemed like it was ages ago, so much had happened to them in that short space of time.

"Honey, is that your phone?"

"Yeah, but I'll take it later. Right now I just want to look at my wife."

"We'll have lots of time for that later, I promise. But it might be important, why don't you take it while I finish up."

He reluctantly stepped into the living room and retrieved his coat, where his phone was tucked away.

"Peter Burke."

"Hi, Agent Burke. Laura White. I don't know if you remember me."

"Yeah I do, with the Convention Against Torture."

"I'm sorry to call so late, but I thought you might want this information. Your CI, Neal Caffrey was just taken to the prison infirmary.'

**tbc.**

**Author's note:**

Thanks for all the great reviews and support. A word of warning, next chapter gets a bit gory, may not be for the faint of heart.


	5. Chapter 5

**ANGEL**

**Chapter 5**

"Boss, you need to slow down. We can't help Caffrey if we end up road kill."

She hadn't seen him this spooked since Elizabeth was taken. Peter was a rock. She couldn't imagine anyone else she would want with her back in a pressure situation. He was that rare combination of blazing mental agility and quiet resolve. But this thing with Caffrey had clearly gotten to him, unnerved him.

"Neal should be OK as long as he's in the infirmary."

"He's not. They called before I picked you up; he's being transferred back to the unit. What were you able to find on Snow?" his tired eyes fixed the road.

"We placed Snow in Florence right about the time we had a lead on Caffrey for the Giotto heist at the Uffizi. Nothing indicates any contact between them. Snow comes back to the states shortly after and murders his family. Caffrey comes back, finds Kate, we find him. Snow is imprisoned, escapes right around the time of Caffrey's trial and then placed in supermax. He's been there ever since. Caffrey goes to prison, the rest you know."

"Is there any indication Neal was involved in any way with the Snow family? Any grudge Snow could be nursing?"

"Nothing. There is nothing to tie them together other than Florence."

Peter lets out a long sigh. They are still miles away from the prison. He's glad to have Diana along. He resisted when Reese initially brought her in, but he knew it was the right decision. This was personal, too personal. He needed the objectivity and the restraint, if his fears proved true.

"There's got to be something. Something we're missing," he said to her.

"Well, here's the thing. I ran Snow's financials. There has been a regular withdrawal of funds from his estate into a blind account over the past four years. This past week five hundred thousand dollars was deposited.

"Half a million, that buys a lot of access."

"That's exactly what I thought, Boss. It's no coincidence it coincides with Caffrey's transfer to the prison. I have Jones working on it now. Trace the money, right?"

"Great work, Diana. Now we have to make it in time."

**WCWCWCWCWC**

He was weak and sore, but moving under his own steam as the guards removed the shackles and deposited him into his cell. Neal couldn't remember much of what happened yesterday, it was a blur still. He remembered Riley pushing him to eat and then it was like all his blood went rushing around in his head. He couldn't stop it, he couldn't do anything. He rubbed absentmindedly at the tape covering the spot where an IV gave much needed nourishment hours earlier.

The doctor said he had pneumonia, dehydration. Intravenous fluids and an injection of Keflex already were making a difference. His breathing wasn't as labored, chest didn't hurt as bad, but his head still wasn't right. He had pneumonia before, but yesterday was something else entirely. He was pulled out of his confusion as several guards entered and moved into Ambrose's cell. They had large green bags and systematically began tossing the small space.

"What's going on?" he said to Ambrose who sat passively on his bed, almost trance like. His hands stained with paint. He'd worked thru the night transforming every inch of that concrete cage into a resplendent work of astonishing art. Angels covered the ceilings and walls, both fierce and mournful they hovered with frightening detail. His hands were raw and scabbed over with dried blood.

He made no reply as stacks of sketchbooks, plastic containers of paint and rolls of charcoal were dumped into the plastic bags.

"Ambrose, do you hear me?" Neal called out to him.

"Stop, why are you doing this?" he directed his inquiry to the guards when Ambrose failed to answer. Afraid of passing out again, he took a moment to steady himself.

"This doesn't concern you Caffrey. Stand away from the door."

He stood back and caught his breath. Something was wrong, terribly wrong and somehow he was at the center of it. How, he wasn't sure.

"Clarity is everything, Neal." Ambrose finally spoke, his voice low and confiding.

"I'm not a mind reader. I don't know what you mean. Why are they doing this?"

His heart was speeding again, his head still hurt, but his mind was beginning to clear. He remembered the applesauce…. Ambrose urging him to eat it. Surely, Riley would have savaged him or worse if he wasn't taken to the infirmary. Then it dawned on him. The applesauce, it was poisoned. Poisoned just enough to warrant a trip to the infirmary.

"What did you do, Ambrose?"

"Freed you, freed you from the abyss. He would have debased you, corrupted your purity. I have tried to live in your universe. I know I will not see the face of God. I know my true calling now."

"I can't let you take responsibility…"

"The angels hold the key."

Riley entered, pushing two large containers of paint and rollers.

"Neal, so good to have you back with us. I thought as a welcome home party, we'd do a little spring cleaning. Freshen up the place, what do you say?"

He motioned to the other guards as they lifted the containers and began pouring out the paint. Neal watched in horror as they began to paint over Ambrose's work. One by one the magnificent angels succumbed to the gray wash of paint.

"No, no, no he screamed. You can't do this. You won't get away with this Riley. I promise you. I will…"

Riley stepped into the cell and grabbed for Neal's arm. Neal jerked away, filled with an anger and loathing he didn't know he was capable of.

"You will what? Now you see, look what you've gone and done, resisting a guard."

As he slammed Neal against the wall of the cell, a voice echoed in the corridor.

"Let him go!"

Peter was advancing forward down the hall, his face a mask of fear and fury. Diana was a step behind.

"Peter," Neal could hardly get the name out.

"We have signed papers from the District Attorney's office authorizing this man's release. NOW!" barely containing his rage.

He moved to take Neal's arm. Diana was shocked by what she saw. Neal had a full beard; his eyes were glazed and sunken, large black circles spotlighted against his pale skin. His already thin body seemed merely skin and bones. How could so much damage happen in the space of a week? She barely recognized him.

"Neal, we're here to take you home."

He could feel Neal's body tremble under his hand. He was warm and sweating profusely.

"Peter, please you have to help him," he motioned to Ambrose's cell.

"Neal, you're sick. We need to get you to a doctor."

"I'm not leaving. You don't know what they do to you here," he looked so desperate.. We have to help him."

"Neal, Snow is the reason you're here. We have evidence he's complicit in all this."

"It's not true, I don't believe it."

Neal was leaning heavily on Peter, as the older man tried to support his weight, when suddenly he pulled away and turned to the plexiglass wall where Ambrose sat. Riley moved to restrain him.

"I got this, Boss," Diana blocked his path to Neal. I wouldn't want to do that if I were you. Take one more step and you are engaged in an illegal detention and resisting a federal agent. You wouldn't want to resist, now would you." she fixed an icy smile on the guard, all but daring him to move forward.

Riley backed away. Neal was standing barely, his hands against the plexiglass wall of Ambrose's cell, as much for support as to make contact with it's inhabitant..

"I'm so sorry," his eyes glistened with tears.

In those blue eyes resided an astonishing sweetness seated alongside a power so fierce as not to be humanly possible. At that moment Ambrose knew he had seen the face of an angel.

**WCWCWCWCWC**

It was several weeks since he'd been released to house arrest. He was very slowly regaining some of his weight. June and Cindy hovered over him constantly. Elsa, June's housekeeper, seemed to have been programmed morning, noon and night to show up meal in hand to his door. Even Diana sent a box of his favorite cookies. His last visit to the doctor showed no sign of infection. He was grateful, but it still remained a struggle to eat and most days he spent sleeping. In a haunting way, it was as if he'd never left his cell.

Peter arranged for him to come in part time to the office. The DA dropped all charges against him. Since Mozzie's confession, there was little else to connect him directly to the art theft and he'd been exonerated fully in Elizabeth's kidnapping. Now it all depended on the hearing. Deputy Director Roark would determine if his parole would be revoked and he returned to prison.

"So you think you're up to this?" Peter said as he met him at the elevators.

"As ready as I'll ever be. I guess. Thank you for doing this, Peter."

He seemed so different now, Peter thought. Most of the wounds had healed, but he moved as if he were still in pain, unsure, unsteady on his feet. No trace of the patented Caffrey swagger. There was a distance in him, a detachment he briefly glimpsed in those unguarded days after Kate's death. He knew they needed to talk. Neal gave very little opening, he mostly avoided him. He knew it was Peter's decision that put him back in prison.

"Caffrey, my man. Just in time to do some of the heavy lifting," Jones grinned as he held up one of the files he was reading thru, marked Neal Caffrey.

"Not quite as heavy as before, he smiled and looked down at his jacket that still slightly hung from his slender frame. He settled in at his desk.

The day went by fast. It was awkward initially, but people seemed to get past it quickly enough. There was plenty of work to do. Peter, Diana and Hughes spent most of the morning huddled together in Hughes's office plotting out their strategy for the hearing. It was noon before he knew it. Peter came to his desk.

"How was your first half day?"

"Not bad."

"How about lunch, then? Diana, Jones and I are going to Luigi's, our treat. The appetizers alone are 1000 calories."

"Thanks Peter, but I'm a little tired still and don't have much of an appetite."

"Yeah, how's that going? Doctor said you regained some of your weight but you still have a ways to go."

"I'm trying."

"Well, how about I give you a lift home?"

"I can take a cab; I thought you guys were going to Luigi's."

"I'll take a rain check. El will be happy," he smiled and patted his waistline.

Peter got in first as Neal stood for a moment surveying the familiar Taurus. The last time he'd seen it was on that long drive back from the supermax. He thought he must have passed out again, because he couldn't even remember how he got to the car. He sat in the back with Diana, who was talking in not much more than a whisper to him. He remembered she looked so concerned.

"What? You need an invitation.?"

"Sorry Peter, my mind was someplace else."

"Seat belt."

"What?

"Seat belt, Neal."

He was clearly hesitant to strap himself in, a vague sense of anxiety settling into his chest. His pulse began to speed and an overwhelming urge to run was burning through his chest. Peter could see the telltale signs of impending panic cross his face.

"Let me do it," he reached over to fasten the seat belt when Neal flinched, his face draining of color.

"It's OK, Neal. It's OK. I know you're not ready to talk to me, but you're going to have to with someone. You've refused seeing the counselor."

"What's the point, Peter? I mean really. Can we just go home? I'm tired."

They drove in silence until they reached June's. Neal sitting as far from Peter as he could manage, his body almost squeezed against the car door. As soon as they arrived, he thanked Peter, climbed the stairs and vanished into the majestic old home. Peter sat trying to sort out what to do, as June came up to the car.

"Hello Peter, it's so good to see you. How are you doing?"

"Don't really know."

"Yes dear, I can't imagine just how hard this all has been for you. How is Elizabeth?"

"Holding up pretty well, considering."

"She's a remarkably strong woman; if anyone can pull through what she endured it's her. You are so lucky to have each other. Please give her my regards, tell her don't be a stranger. You know how fond I am of her, both of you really."

"I know. Thank you June. But this is about Neal, isn't it?"

"Partly, but mainly it's about the two of you. I've come to love Neal like a son, he's family to me. I do hope the two of you can find a way back to each other. He cares deeply for you, admires and respects you so very much."

"But he lied to me June, betrayed me and everything I tried to give to him. How do I get around that?" Peter seemed so lost.

"You can't. You have to find a way to forgive him. He has to find a way to forgive himself. It's never easy, Peter. My Byron promised me right here, right on this very porch that he was through with the life. It was the night we brought our first child home. I knew the man he was. But I believed him, anyway. Lord knows I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe he could change. If not for me, then for the child we created…. a promise of everything that was good and decent in him, the man I knew he could become. When he was arrested, I couldn't breathe."

"So he betrayed you."

"Of course. Change isn't something you can will into existence. Love isn't something you can will out of existence. Neal needs you and you need him."

"He's not eating, he sleeps all day, all night. He's created his own prison. When he went away the first time, he didn't know what to expect. None of them do. The lucky ones have family, friends, something to live for. He had Kate then. He thinks you've turned your back on him. Peter, his heart is broken."

Peter swallowed hard, tears welled in his eyes.

"What do I do, June?"

"Trust him again. Trust him until he trusts himself, dear. It's not fair the burden rests on you, but we can't help loving the people we love."

**WCWCWCWD**

The week had gone by quickly. Friday was the hearing, the tension in the office was thick. So much was riding on the outcome of this decision. Not only his fate hung in the balance, the entire White Collar Division had come under close scrutiny and Hughes and Peter's reputations and possibly their jobs were at stake. While Jones and Diana had come to accept him and were doing everything in their power to help, it would be devastating for them to lose Peter Burke. The thought made his stomach knot.

Everyone had cleared out for the day. He was the last one in building. He wanted to nail down every detail. It had to be a flawless presentation. He heard the elevator beep. No one should be there. He turned to find Deputy Roark standing off to his left, watching him.

"Director Roark, can I help you sir?"

"Burning the night oil, Mr. Caffrey?"

"Trying to tie up some loose ends, for tomorrows hearing. Were you looking for Agent Burke?"

"Yes, I wanted to pick up a file he had for me?"

"Sorry, you just missed him. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I heard about your experience in the supermax. Some pretty nasty business, that."

"I guess you could call torture that."

"This isn't personal Mr. Caffrey. I have been doing this a long time. In my experience it's damn near impossible to change who we really are at the core...you know leopards and spots. You may want to think you have, but at the end of the day we always revert to who we are. Like I said it's not personal."

"Funny, it feels very personal. Good night Director Roark."

"Can I give you a lift anywhere."

"No thank you. I think I'd like to walk, savor my last night of freedom."

Neal took the stairwell, Roark the elevator. The garage was empty. He started toward the black Lincoln he parked along the stairwell earlier in the day. There was a soft buzzing sound from the harsh halogen lights overhead. He saw a man standing a few feet away.

"Do I know you?" he said as he approached the man.

"No, but you know a friend of mine. I am Ambrose Snow."

"Before he knew what hit him, a needle quickly plunged into the base of Roark's neck. Ambrose watched his face, his eyes widen in surprise as his feet went out from under him. He hit the concrete floor silently. It took two minutes to get him into the roomy Lincoln. By this time Roark was breathing hard, drenched in the stench of his own sweat. The On Star system gave the last location visited, Director Roark's home. They drove south.

A naked Roark was staring at the knife in Ambrose's hand as he leaned forward to judge the angle between Roark's outstretched right arm and his chest. Then meticulously replicated the angle on his left. It appeared as if he were poised for flight, with arms outstretched to heaven. Satisfied, he placed the tip of the blade along Roark's arm and pressed down. A dark trail of blood traced slowly down his forearm, to his wrist and pooled in his outstretched hand. Ambrose quickly and skillfully began his dissection, separating muscle from tendon.. He no longer believed in salvation.

Roark was incapable of moving, the fast acting poison totally immobilizing him, but Ambrose could feel the tiny tremors and jerks moving through his body. Roark's eyes were frozen in disbelief as his brain screamed. _Please!_

.


	6. Chapter 6

**ANGEL**

_**Author's notes**_

_Much thanks again to all of you who have stayed with this story. I really appreciate your wonderful reviews and feedback. As promised, a word of warning. This chapter continues with some dark material and depictions of violence._

**Chapter 6**

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"Morning June."

"Morning Neal. May I join you?"

"Of course. I made a fresh pot of coffee. Can I pour you a cup?"

"Don't mind if I do."

The sun had come up over a pure blue late winter sky. Manhattan's majestic cityscape stretched as far as the eye could see, enormous and luminous. June drew in a long breath, savoring the crisp air and the aroma of freshly brewed French Roast.

"I never get tired of this view."

"I remember when you first walked me out here. I knew that day not only my luck, but my life had changed." His eyes glistened with gratitude.

"I'm gonna miss this."

"Why, are you planning on going somewhere?" she took his hand and smiled.

"I'm not ready. I'm scared June."

"You shouldn't be."

"Why, you know something I don't?" he laughed.

"I know Peter Burke."

"I don't think I can count on Peter this time. He'll be fair of course, he can't not be. It's coded in his DNA sequences. But deep down he'll never trust me again, so how can we work together? He'll do the right thing, and suspend our deal. I see it in his eyes every time he looks at me."

"Give him time, dear."

"I'm afraid time is something I don't have. The hearing is this morning. Sorry, but I need to get going. I don't know if I'll be allowed to come back here…. if my parole is suspended. June, I want to thank..."

"I'm not saying good bye. I have faith in you and Peter." She leaned forward took his face in her hands and kissed him warmly.

That's a word he heard a lot lately, faith. He'd broken faith with just about everyone, Sarah, Mozzie… Peter. It was hard for him to believe. Faith was something that tripped you up and got in the way. He tried not to think about Ambrose Snow and his deluded faith in him. What good did it do him.

He decided to walk. The sky was still blue and the city around him was bracingly alive. He was running late, he stepped up his pace. Mildly winded, he found himself standing outside the glass doors of the White Collar Division. Half lost, he looked down at his hands, they were frozen on the metal door handles. It seemed so distant, as if his life there had been in another time another existence.

"Caffrey, you coming in or what? You look a mess."

Diana Berrigan did something she never believed she would in a million years. She straightened out Neal Caffrey's tie and smoothed his dark locks from his face and out of those baby blues.

"Now, that looks better."

His expression brightened.

"Thanks. I walked here, the wind was brutal. Have I missed anything?""

"No, Peter and Hughes are still meeting. The rest of the panel are in the conference room. Jones is up first. But, they are still waiting on Roark."

The mention of Roark made him go cold. Part of him wanted to run. Just turn and run, and never stop. In a matter of minutes he could be convicted and locked away. The walls he kept against those thoughts were high and solid, but they were crumbling. His anxiety was unconcealed now.

"Come on Caffrey. We have a good chance of winning this." Diana smiled.

"Yeah, we got this," Jones came up carrying a steaming cup of coffee which he pressed into Neal's cold hands. By the way, did you take that file I had on you? I could have sworn I left it here on my desk."

"Roark came by last night," Neal offered.

"What do you suppose he wanted?"

"A file Peter had for him and to lecture me on the impossibility of change. Maybe he took it."

"Maybe somebody should have given him a lecture on punctuality," Diana rolled her eyes.

As if on cue, the elevator doors opened and four FBI agents entered making their way to the glass enclosed conference room. A courier carrying a brown paper wrapped box followed them in.

"I'm looking for Neal Caffrey."

"That would be me," Neal shrugged.

"This is for you. I need you to sign here."

Neal took the package and placed it on his desk, he was much more interested in the swarm of agents now pouring out of the elevators.

"What's going on?" Jones said as he saw the expression on Dina's face.

"I don't know, but whatever it is; it doesn't look good. I know that guy. He's with Violent Crimes."

Neal watched as the agents climbed the steps to the conference room. He knew trouble. That familiar feeling of adrenaline laced dread that always accompanied a heist gone bad was coursing through his veins.

**WCWC**

Peter entered the conference room a step behind Reese Hughes. He immediately sensed the tension among the hastily assembled agents. Forgoing any opening statements, the lead agent moved to the head of the crowded table. Cliff Hall was in his late forties, slightly balding and athletic. He headed up the New York Office for Violent Crimes. In one hand he held a manilla folder, the other his third cup of cold black coffee since being awakened with the news.

"FBI Deputy Director John Roark's body was discovered several hours ago."

The reaction among the group was swift, stunned silence. Peter sat back in his chair, the shock registering on his face.

"All right," Hall cleared his throat. We're obviously in the process of gathering evidence. This is what we have so far. It's not pretty, folks."

He opened the manilla folder and passed the pictures around the conference table. He ignored the murmurs of shock and occasional gasps from the veteran agents.

"Director Roark was found by his housekeeper, naked and mutilated on his dining room table. The coroner report says cause of death, blood loss. He was apparently alive during all of this. As you can see there is extensive damage to both arms and chest. The way the body is posed suggests a ritualistic pattern."

Along with everyone around the table, Peter struggled to control the rising tide of bile at the back of his throat. He tried to clear his mind. Through the large glass windows, he could see Diana, Jones and Neal huddled around his desk. Suddenly everything had changed.

"Agent Burke, you're Neal Caffrey's handler?"

"Yes, he's my CI."

"Director Roark was scheduled to hear Mr. Caffrey's parole revocation this morning. Our report indicates Roark's last known stop was here. Security footage shows he and Caffrey leaving the unit at the same time last night. As you can see there is a grainy shot of two men, a few feet from the deputy's Lincoln, but they are just outside of range to make a clear identification."

"What are you saying?" Peter asked incredulous. Neal may be many things he thought, but a cold blooded murderer was not one of them.

"We need to see Caffrey's tracking data. Now."

**WCWC**

"What do you think is going on up there?" Jones said trying to get a better look.

"I don't know, but Peter just went to his office and he doesn't look happy. Anyway, whatever it is Roark can't pin this on you." She looked at Neal who was as white as a ghost. His eyes were focused on Peter. Maybe a little distraction was in order she thought.

"So, Caffrey are you going to open your package or just stand there?"

OK he thought, anything to get his mind off his heartbeat and the troubling scenarios running through his head.

The room suddenly went quiet. Diana's face went pale. Neal's went paler. Two bloodless hands posed as if in prayer lay in the middle of the box. Inserted between the praying hands was a painted angel. The box top clattered to the floor. Neal spun himself away from the box, clutched his hand to his stomach and fell forward. Jones caught him before his face hit the floor.

"Neal!" Peter yelled as he watched his CI crumple to the floor.

He realized he was lying on the floor, covered in a cold sweat. His vision was still blurred, but gradually he could make out Jones's face staring down at him. He tried to stand but his legs were still weak. Jones was steadying him when he felt another pair of hands on his body. Peter slid his arms under his shoulder and gently helped Jones lie him down on the small couch outside the conference room.

He tried to stand again. His head was still spinning and the crush of people surrounding him only added to his sense of disequilibrium. The office was in a controlled state of chaos.

"No, Neal. You need to lie down, you look awful."

"Peter, did you see it?"

"Yeah, I did."

"The angel, it was Ambrose's."

"What is he talking about? What the hell is going on, Burke?" Hall asked standing next to Peter.

"Neal was in solitary confinement two weeks ago while waiting for this hearing. Ambrose Snow was also on the unit."

"Go on."

"Snow is a psychotic killer, he has a fascination with angels. He passed a portrait of an angel to Neal, like the one in the box."

"Burke, if you're man is involved in this.."

"He's not."

"You saw the pictures of the deputy director. Roark's hands were severed. What do you want bet, that's not them in that box."

Neal was sitting now."Peter, Roark is dead?"

As if this situation could get any worse, Diana nodded to Peter before he could answer, guiding him into the corridor with her and Jones.

"Boss. You need to hear this. Ambrose Snow escaped supermax last night. He killed two guards."

"Christ!" Peter swallowed hard.

"Boss, we think Roark had Neal's file when he left. If Snow is involved, he has everything the department has on Neal."

**WCWC**

**12 hours earlier**

He stabbed at the keypad, punching the code with a fury that was barely sustainable. Security cameras disabled earlier, Riley waited impatiently as the steel door to the unit slid open. It was weeks since Caffrey's release but the rage in him continued to boil. Ambrose Snow would never make a fool of him again.

He could hear Officer Paul's footsteps coming up behind him as he entered Snow's cell. Snow sat passively, watching, waiting. The cell was stripped bare of anything that might suggest human habitation. A lone paint can leaned precariously against the outer wall. A stark reminder of Riley's wish to obliterate Snow's world. Tonight he would finish what he started.

He approached the seated prisoner, those green eyes seemed to glow in the dark.

"Was he smiling?" Riley thought.

He raised his hand to pound and pulverize Snow as he had so many times in the past. He never saw the small metal tipped object, until it was jammed into his throat.

"What the fuck, Ambrose!" Officer Paul screamed. You promised..."

Before he could finish Ambrose lunged toward the door, grabbed the paint can and swung. The force completely unwrapped Paul's skull, separating all of his cranial plates. Large fragments of skin, bone and gray matter splattered the ceiling and plexiglass wall. Paul's head was essentially gone as his body thudded against the concrete floor.

Riley was slumped against the small bed, his eyes jammed wide. The fast acting poison totally immobilizing him. Ambrose could feel his fear. The smell of blood filled the tiny space. It was soon to be joined with the stench of shit and piss, as Riley voided his bowels and bladder.

Riley's head was back against the bed, eyes bulging and his mouth open in agony as Ambrose reached in to get a firm grip on his tongue. The powerful muscle wriggled and shook as he clamped down. The small metal tool made the dissection more difficult then he imagined. He had time.

Riley was still breathing. His tortured gasps echoed in the silent space as Ambrose opened the lid of the blood splattered can. He poured the liquid into the hole where Riley's mouth once had been. Nothing to obstruct its path, he drowned in a sea of gray.

Ambrose heard a whisper of sound, it grew stronger, louder until if filled his brain to bursting. Then the light, and within that light, a face both beautiful and terrifying. His angel.


	7. Chapter 7

**ANGEL**

**Chapter 7**

"June?"

"Hello Peter."

"I'm sorry June, but what are you doing here?"

"Neal called me."

"Neal?"

"Yes, he asked me to pick him up. Is he ready?"

"He's in interrogation."

June had visited the FBI office on a few other occasions, but she had never seen it like this. Agents were everywhere, mixed in with NYPD and the coroner's office. The fax machines could barely process the incoming sheets as harried clerks moved the paper trail between offices. The tension was thick. Jones and Diana were clearly upset, barely making eye contact. She spoke softly, her voice filled with concern.

"Peter, what's happened here?"

"Burke, I'm gonna need you on this," Hall interrupted as he walked up.

"It's a long story, June. Please, have a seat in my office. I'll get back with you as soon as I can. I'm sorry."

June nodded, put her hand on his arm and took a seat in Peter's office.

"OK Agent Hall, you got my full attention."

"Forensics came back with a positive DNA match on the hands in the box. Our time line shows Roark's car traveled directly from here to his house in Queens. Caffrey's tracking date indicates he was home at the time of the murder."

"So he's in the clear," Peter breathed out.

"For the time being. As good a con as your guy is, nobody could fake the flop sweat on Caffrey."

"Veteran agents were close to tossing it in there," Peter could barely mask his irritation.

"I'm not just talking about the message in the box, Burke. This guy Snow has Caffrey spooked. There is something there, some connection and I will find it. Have Caffrey back here in the morning."

**WCWC**

Peter entered the interrogation room where Neal was still seated, his elbows propped on the glass table top. The color had returned to his face.

"How you holding up?"

"Seriously? I've just gotten out of a three hour interrogation where I'm the prime suspect in a murder case. I've been beaten, strangled within an inch of my life, placed on rape speed dial and poisoned. How do you think I'm doing? Am I done here?"

"You're free to go. Your tracking data showed you at home at the time of the murder. Neal, if you know anything, anything at all about Snow's involvement in this. Now is the time."

"I don't know anything, Peter. Believe me."

"I want to, Neal."

"OK, he took a breath. I was greedy. I was stupid and I should have told you about the treasure. I can never make it up to Elizabeth. I saw the pictures Peter! For God's sake, do you really think I could have murdered Roark?"

"No, I don't. But you're not thinking clearly when it comes to Snow."

"Why, because I didn't want to abandon him to those sadists? But then again, maybe you think a little torture is what criminals like us deserve?"

"Neal, I had no idea that would happen to you."

"But it did, and it happened to Ambrose regularly. He deserved justice. You told me justice, not revenge was the right way, but just not for everyone I guess."

"That's not fair."

"But it's the truth. Can I go?"

Peters face changed, a trace of acknowledgment crossed it, a trace of regret.

"Sure, June's outside."

"Thanks."

"Anyone could have given you a ride home, why did you call June?"

"I don't want to be alone tonight."

**WCWC**

The ride home was a welcome relief. He was never so glad to be home. He was never so grateful for June.

"Neal, Diana told me what happened. How awful. Are you up to talking about it?"

"You don't have to do this June. You've already helped more than you know."

"That's what family is for. It's your decision."

"Do you mind if I get a shower and out of these clothes first?"

"Of course dear. It'll give me a chance to make you something to eat and don't you argue with me. You have to eat something, Neal. How about some soup? My God, it's so chilly in here. Oh... you left the patio doors open. You'll catch your death of cold like that."

"Sorry, I thought I closed them before I left this morning."

"It's OK. It will warm up now," she closed the doors.

Neal set the shower to hot and stepped under the pulsating water. He squeezed his eyes closed and let out a deep calming breath. He tried to clear his mind. Was he really family? Could he really have that or had he spun a fantasy to himself, a fantasy he could live a different life. If they knew his history, his secrets …..would they feel the same? The thoughts consumed his brain as the steaming water washed over his naked skin. A rumbling in his stomach brought him back to the present. He was hungry.

Once the first bite hit his mouth he felt a sense of well being way beyond food. A sense of comfort he hadn't felt in a long time. A sense of comfort he hadn't thought he was deserving of.

"Thanks June, that was delicious. I don't think I realized how hungry I was."

"Good. So tell me what happened today?"

Talk came easier than he imagined as he told her everything. Exhausted, he leaned his head back against his chair. He barely felt sleep overcoming him until he felt June's hand on his arm gently pulling him from his seat.

"Come on now. I turned down your bed. You need to get some rest. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep. Goodnight Neal."

As soon as his head hit the pillow he fell into a deep dreamless sleep. He never saw the man standing in the shadows.

Ambrose Snow quietly approached Neal's bedside. He was asleep, lying on his back face toward the door. Moonlight from the patio doors streamed in highlighting his chiseled features. Ambrose watched his chest rise and fall, softly brushing a strand of tangled hair from his eyes. The room was silent.

Beautiful. That was the only word he could think to describe him. He was so beautiful. He was God's choice. His messenger. As he watched him, Neal stirred. He opened his eyes momentarily, pure blue and translucent then drifted back to sleep. He moaned slightly, turned and pulled his legs up to his chest, as if to protect himself instinctively. Standing there in the dark, Ambrose knew it was his mission to stand between him and a world that would further debase and ultimately destroy him.

Freed of his earthly tormentors he would come to understand the power that resided in that beautiful body. He leaned over the sleeping form as the light emanated from his angel and filled the room.

In a few hours the sun would be up. He had work to do.

**WCWC**

Reese Hughes was standing absolutely straight, his face filled with tension. He glanced down at the two men seated to his right.

"The Bureau has assigned Agents Burke and Hall to lead this investigation. I don't have to tell anyone here the importance of this case. It is our main priority, Deputy Director Roark was one of our own. Agent Berrigan will brief us on what we know about Ambrose Snow."

"Ambrose Snow is a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic. His illness first manifested in childhood. He had no criminal record until he murdered his family four years ago following a trip to Florence Italy. No motive was ever discovered in that killing. He is the sole heir to the vast financial Snow estate. He was sentenced to life in prison. Two months following his imprisonment he escaped, killing a guard in the process. He was caught and transferred to the current supermax facility upstate."

"And how is Snow connected to Mr. Caffrey? Hall asked as he motioned over to Neal who was at the far end of the table.

"We ran every database available to triangulate points of contact between Snow and Caffrey. Caffrey was also in Florence at the same time as Snow. However there is nothing indicating any contact or involvement between the two."

"Can Mr. Caffrey speak?" Hall made a face suggesting impatience and annoyance.

"Yes sir. I first met Ambrose Snow when I was transferred to solitary confinement. I had no contact with him previously."

"If I may Agent Hall, there is some additional data that might shed further light on the relationship. Snow and Neal were both in Florence at the same time. Neal came back to the states was arrested by Agent Burke, a week after Ambrose killed his family. A month later Neal went on trial and Ambrose Snow escapes supermax."

"So what are you saying? What's your point?" Hall asked.

Peter interrupted.

"We think Snow may have been tracking Neal. His picture was in the paper when he was first arrested and then again at the start of his trial. Those two events coincide with the murder of Snows family and then his escape from prison. Snow may have been trying to make contact."

"Why didn't you say anything earlier? Neal asked Peter.

"We didn't have all the pieces. We only found out yesterday that Officer Paul was working with Snow. We were able to trace funds from Snow's accounts back to Officer Paul. There is also evidence that Paul orchestrated the beating that resulted in Neal being transferred to the solitary confinement unit."

"All right. So let's say Snow has some fixation, some attraction to Caffrey. How does that involve Roark?"

"Well, that's what we are trying to figure out."

"We ran an analysis of the angel that was inside the hands, Jones broke in. It's a depiction of the archangel Michael from the artist Cimabue. We know that Snow is fascinated with angels and that it's an integral part of his delusional system. He gave Neal a replica of this angel when he was initially transferred to solitary."

"Snow believed I was sent to him by God. That I was a messenger."

"So your an angel," Hall looked closely at Neal.

"He believed it. I didn't say I did."

"So what are you thinking, Neal?" Peter's eyes focused on his partner.

"The last thing he said to me was the angels are the key. The night before I left he painted his entire cell with angels."

"So you think the paintings might hold a key to Roark's murder?"

"Yes, but they were painted over."

"Isn't there an art restoration technique that could remove the paint?"

"Yes there is."

"It means going back to the prison. Are you up to that?"

"We don't have a choice."

**WCWC**

_Across Town_

_Downstate Correctional Facility_

"Wilkes you have a visitor."

"Who?'

"Some federal agent wants to question you, an Agent Roark."

"For what?

"How would I know?" The prison guard said indifferently.

He opened the cell door, cuffed Wilkes wrists and led him down a corridor to a holding cell.

"Wait here."

Wilkes knew this space. A windowless room. A table, two chairs; one for him and one for the detective. The smell of sweat, stale coffee and anxiety filled the room. Usually a trip here meant the possibility of a deal. But he was way past that.

"So you want to ask me some questions?" Wilkes said sizing up the agent.

"Do you know Neal Caffrey?'

"Yeah I know that snitch. He's responsible for my being here. I'd like to rip his heart out. What does he have to do with anything?"

"I'm here to free him."

"Say what? What's this about man?

The room went quiet, strangely quiet. Nothing happened for a second. Then the man moved forward placing a stun gun against Wilkes side. He heard a cracking sound, as an explosion of pain ripped thru his body. His eyes blurred momentarily.

"Your not FBI," Wilkes struggled to reply.

"No."

"Who the fuck are you?" he was panting now.

"Ambrose Snow."

Ambrose jammed a needle into the seated man's neck. Wilkes tried to stand, but Ambrose held him in his chair until the drug took effect. He looked astonished as he lost control of his body. Frantic, his eyes locked onto Ambrose's who reached behind him and came back with the stun gun.

The stun gun hummed in the silent room, a steady rhythmic pulse as Ambrose eased the dial to maximum voltage. Wilkes was screaming in his head, the delay heightening the anticipation of what came next.

Ambrose stood still as if he was listening. Then filled with a sense of divine purpose he brought the pulsating gun to the bridge of Wilkes's nose. His mouth open in a agonizing grimace ,Wilkes brain screamed. Wait!

**WCWC**

The last time Neal walked this corridor he was in shackles. It didn't seem real. But it was. Since the murders, the solitary confinement unit was shut down. The huge steel doors now permanently suspended open. He shuddered slightly as he walked into the space that was scene to such unspeakable violence. He looked over at Peter then down at his shaking hands. He quickly slid them into his pockets. A gesture not unnoticed by his partner. The art restoration crew was just finishing up their job in Snow's cell. They waited for Hall and the other members of the team to arrive.

"When you're ready to talk to me, I hope you know you can."

"I know. Thanks, Peter."

Hall and the others approached. Agent Hall surveyed the scene, then shifted his gaze to study Neal Caffrey.

"This is how Snow escaped. He took Officer Paul's left eye to activate the retinal scan and Officer Riley's index finger for the touch pad print. Coroner's report indicated they were both done post mortem. You OK Caffrey?"

"I'm fine."

"From our reconstructions, Officer Paul was killed first."

"Head blow," Diana offered.

"You could say that. He was hit with such force, skull fragments and gray matter were recovered from the walls, ceiling and plexiglass. He never knew what hit him. Officer Riley wasn't that lucky. He took his time with him."

Neal tensed visibly as Riley's name was spoken. He still had nightmares about him even though he was dead. His pulse sped up, exactly what he wanted to avoid at all costs, since knowing he had to return to this place.

"He was alive when Snow took his tongue. Tox screens show he used the same curare drug on Riley, that he used on his family and on Roark. He first used it on birds he dissected as a kid, before he graduated to humans."

"I think he gave it to me the night I went to the infirmary," Neal added. Officer Paul added it to my food."

"Why, Neal? Peter asked.

"I think he was trying to protect me from Riley. Riley was a sadist. He took advantage of the inmates. He tortured and raped Ambrose. He would have done the same to me, if Ambrose hadn't intervened."

"So there was no love lost between you and Riley. You think he got what was coming to him?" Hall focused on Neal's obvious anxiety.

"I didn't say that. Nobody deserves that...what happened to him."

"So let me get this straight, Hall stared at Neal. So he murders his entire family, kills three guards, Agent Roark...but you he saves."

"I told you, he has this delusion I was sent to him by God, some kind of divine messenger."

"Everybody, you need to see this, Diana interrupted. The art restoration team had finished.

They stepped into the small cell. No one spoke. It was amazing, just as Neal remembered it. Snow's fierce and mournful angels, but there was one he hadn't noticed.

"What is it Neal?

"This angel. Peter, I don't remember it being here."

Peter moved closer to the cell wall.

"Here, this is the angel Snow sent Neal. He pointed to a portrait of the angel Michael. He somehow associates Michael with Neal. In various theologies Michael is considered the defender, protector of God's people."

"Yes, Neal added. Pre Raphael artists such as Cimabue mostly portrayed him as a warrior, who led God's armies against Satan's forces."

"But he was also widely perceived as a healing angel, a patron of the sick and the suffering. That view would be in keeping with Snow's delusion that Neal would somehow save him. Diana you reported that Snow became ill in childhood and had visions of angels."

"Peter, Ambrose told me that I would purify him."

"OK, lets accept your theory Burke that Snow identifies Caffrey with Michael. How does this angel fit into the picture?" he points to the figure kneeling before the portrait of Michael.

"There's something here, Neal interrupts. Peter reach me that cloth."

Neal begins to apply the restorers solution to the wall. A faint inscription emerges: Revelations 20:2. Recognition lit his eyes.

"Abbadon," Peter whispers.

"Someone want to clue me in?" Hall asks.

"The angel of death. Variously portrayed as a defender of Michael and the other higher order of angels from the forces of Satan. Other times portrayed as Satan himself."

The room went silent as they struggled to process this information.

"Peter!" Jones entered the unit breathing hard. There is something you need to hear. Ryan Wilkes was found dead over an hour ago, at Downstate Correctional facility."

"What?"

"He was electrocuted. He was found after a visit from... get this, FBI Deputy Director Roark."

Peter ran his hand through his hair. He felt his pulse jump, his heart began to pound. He shook his head.

"What's going on Burke? Who the hell is Ryan Wilkes?" Hall spat out.

"He was a former associate of Neal's. He kidnapped, tasered and threatened to kill Neal on an undercover assignment last year. Peter was talking to Hall, but looking at Neal, his blue eyes were flat.

"It's Ambrose. He's going after anyone he thinks is a threat to me. He sees himself as an avenging angel." Neal struggled to get a grip on his emotions.

"And he has every file we have on Caffrey," Jones added. Peter, you are on that list."

"I'm no threat to Neal."

"I know that Peter, but Ambrose hold's you responsible. He told me as much. You're in danger, his heart shuddered as he lay a hand on Peter's arm. He's a madman and he won't stop. He believes he's on a mission from God.".

"Then we stop him."

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

**ANGEL**

**Chapter 8**

"The very first con I ran. I got sick as a dog. I mean it was really bad. It lasted for days... cramps, cold sweats. All that adrenaline, anxiety...and shame, I felt like I'd been run over by a Mack truck. I was a thief." He took a sip of coffee.

"It took a long time to perfect the Neal Caffrey you first met."

"Go on," Peter said quietly.

"When you strip yourself of everything and everyone, and you have nothing to lose but the game; the game becomes your life. I poured everything into it. I lost myself, until I met her."

"Kate."

"Yeah, she made me want to change. She made me want to believe in something bigger than myself. I thought I could go back. But I couldn't, I dragged her into this mess. Put her life at risk."

"You sound like you don't believe it's possible."

"No more lies, Peter. I don't know. I met you, Elizabeth, June... Sarah. I thought, maybe this time. Maybe I could do it, belong to something again, belong to somebody." He looked away.

"Neal, I want to help you, but it's hard watching someone you care about destroy them self. It scares me." Peter leaned back in his chair and looked out into the city. He had wounds of his own.

"I can't imagine what drove you to give up everything and everyone. I would be nothing without the people in my life. I couldn't breathe when Keller took Elizabeth, a world without her in it..." He hesitated to go on.

"I'm so sorry, Peter."

"You didn't take her Neal. But truth be told, the thought of losing her and losing you too, it kinda tipped me over the edge. I was wrong letting you go back to prison. I was angry, I felt rejected."

"But Peter."

"Let me finish. No more lies. It wasn't just the job and our deal. I wanted you to choose me and it hurt when I thought you wanted out. It was the only way I thought I could hold you. I can't let that happen again. Jesus, Neal. I never meant for any of this to happen to you."

"I know, Peter. But you need to be aware of something. Maybe all I am now, is all I'll ever be. It's easy to default to what I know best...if that answer is yes. Conning for me is like an alcoholic's secret bottle or a junkie's hidden stash. I know it's there if I need it. I may not need it today. I may not need it tomorrow..." his eyes glistened as he looked at the man across from him.

"OK, Peter breathed out. Then we take it one step, one day at a time, together. And today we concentrate on getting Snow. Let's get to that hearing."

**WCWCWC**

"Boss, I think you want to see this, Diana entered the conference room.

"What do you have?"

"We ran all of the video of the day Deputy Roark was killed. We think we have Ambrose here on the surveillance monitors. Here you see this man enter at eight am, but we never see him leave."

"So he was here the entire time," Neal said flatly.

"Yeah, we think he was here the entire time. There is nothing that shows him leaving the building. The last shot we have is this one with him and Roark in the garage."

"So where was he all this time?" Jones added.

"Good question. We don't know. But he had a lot of time to familiarize himself with this building. So we have every entrance and exit monitored now. Cameras installed in the garage. We know he is well organized."

"That's what worrying me. Peter. I'm just not sure about the plan to draw him out by going ahead with the hearing. There are too many loose ends."

"Look it, Snow is targeting anyone he thinks is a threat to you, especially to your freedom. If we go ahead with the hearing, which could place you back in prison. It's bound to bring him out."

"We know he's been tracking you, and he has the money to access all the resources he needs, Diana added. We will be ready for him boss."

**WCWCWCWC**

They waited all through the morning and all through the afternoon. Each and everyone vigilant and hyper aware of times passage. They drank coffee, lots of coffee.

_Snow didn't come_

Diana and Jones ran through video feeds. They didn't speak, just waited and wondered. Peter and Hall huddled with Bureau staff sorting through reports. All united in a common frustration and grim anticipation.

_Snow didn't come._

Neal was standing facing the window. The sun was starting to go down. The sky was awash in shades of pink and flashes of gold...the room was quiet. He took in the silence and closed his eyes.

"Caffrey, can I have a word?" Hall entered the office and pulled the door shut behind him.

"Sure," Neal nodded.

"You have a lot of friends here. Agents Burke, Hughes and the rest of your team just attested to your professionalism and the help you've brought in solving cases. Said you might be the best CI the White Collar Division ever had. They went to the wall for you in there."

"Thanks, I appreciate that."

"I know this past month has been an ordeal, took a lot out of you." He looked in Neal's eyes.

"You going to tell me what this is about or do I have to guess?"

"I'm not here to judge you. Nobody wants to crucify you over this. Burke will be in here any minute to tell you, your parole stays intact. The hearing is done."

"But?"

"I need to know what you learned about Snow."

"He's brilliant, determined and mad."

"How mad?"

"As mad as it gets. He's absolutely delusional."

"But you felt something for him, connected with him. I need to know if he got into your head. I need to know you can do what's necessary when the time comes."

"I won't let them down." he said with his best game face. But Neal knew to protect the people he cared about; they would need more than guns and cameras.

_Snow didn't come._

"I take it you heard the good news."

"I did. I heard it was mainly due to you guys. Thank you, Peter. You have no idea what this means to me."

"I have some idea," Peter said smiling. It's almost five; it doesn't look like Snow is going to show. Agent Hall and I discussed it. We want to keep the hearing going, pretend you're still in jeopardy."

"OK, if you think so. But I don't know. I just have a bad feeling about this."

"Go home get some sleep. We have details posted at June's."

"What about you?"

"I sent Elizabeth upstate to her parents and there will be a detail on me twenty four seven. We will find him, Neal."

**WCWCWCWC**

It was midnight, he couldn't sleep. Tension filled the pit of his stomach. Ambrose was not going to stop; he would never give up this easily. If Peter was right and he almost always was when operating on his gut, then Ambrose should have shown today. The files he brought from the office littered his dining table as he poured through them, looking for some clue some detail that would unravel Snow's troubled mind and his deadly obsession with him.

What stood out most, the escalation in violence with each murder. This seemed consistent with the progression of his mania that was well documented in the psychological profile. The psychiatrists tried various anti psychotics starting in childhood. Some so potent it left the young boy barely more than a zombie. It was then he became obsessed with flight. Neal thought, maybe it was a wish to fight against or understand his frozen, straight jacketed body. Many of the birds he dissected were found littered around the mansion, tossed from the roof top in a desperate hope to see if these crippled beings could take flight, his fallen angels. He felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and pity for that young boy, but a chill ran down his spine for the man he'd become.

The one invariable in Snow's MO was the curare. Maybe he was inducing in the victim's the same paralysis he felt as a boy. He was no psychologist, but in his business it was imperative to know what made your opponent tick, what drove them, what motivated them if you were to stay ahead. He had to stay one step ahead now.

He was late getting into the office next morning. It had been difficult getting the detail assigned to him to stop at the local pharmacy. They had been given strict orders by Peter to ensure he came in directly to work. He convinced them, the anxiety was wreaking havoc with his stomach and the medication would make everyone's life more bearable if they got his drift. When he got in, Jones was seated at his desk scanning files. Diana was busy briefing Agent Hall and his team in the conference room. Everything seemed perfectly routine.

"How you holding up?" Jones asked as he walked to his desk.

"Couldn't sleep last night. I went through some of the case files on Snow. I think I got some new information. I want to run it by you guys. Where's Peter?"

"He and Hughes are meeting with brass upstairs. He shouldn't be too long."

**Upstairs Conference Room**

"That went better than I thought. For a while, I wasn't sure where this was going to end up," Peter breathed out.

"That makes two of us, Caffrey back in prison, you out of a job and me in early retirement was looking like a done deal. But I think they got bigger fish to fry then us now. Peter we've got to find this son of a bitch Snow." Hughes displayed an uncharacteristic vehemence.

"We got a plan. I'm meeting with Hall and the team downstairs in a few minutes."

"Make it a damn good one. I'm going to stay and finish up the paperwork."

Peter headed toward the elevators.

The elevator door ghosted open. Before Peter could react, Ambrose slammed the stun gun into his gut. He felt his insides twist, as he fell forward into Snow's arms. The door closed.

**WCWC**

Focus, he kept telling himself. Concentrate on the job at hand. He dropped the files from last night onto his desk. He needed caffeine. He opened his desk drawer and he stopped dead. The blood drained from his face as Neal went cold. There it was, a perfect portrait of the angel.

"Where is Peter?" he shouted.

"Upstairs." Jones was on his feet now.

The panic and urgency in Neal's voice grabbed Diana's s attention. She moved toward the two men.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Ambrose. He's here. Right now!"

"Calm down. Neal, talk to me."

"Look, I found this in my drawer," he held the angel in his shaking hands. We're losing time. He was breathing hard. I am telling you he's here. It's the same as when he killed Roark. He was here all the time. This wasn't in my desk when I left last night. He had to place it there after we all left."

"I'm calling Peter," Jones was punching the number into his phone. He's not responding."

"Jones, what floor are they on?" Neal yelled as he ran to the elevator bank. Shit! They aren't working," he caught his breath.

"OK, shut this place down, Diana ordered. He could be anywhere in this building. Fan out, we search every floor now!"

Agent Hall had joined them now. "He won't get away, this place is sealed tight." He started for the stairway , Neal was close behind.

"Look Caffrey, I know you want to help; but leave this to the trained professionals. Stay back, stay here. We will bring him back."

Ambrose had Peter. He knew it. He could feel it. Shivers ran down his spine. Had Ambrose gotten into his head? He had to think, he couldn't let panic swallow him whole. Where would he go, what would he do? He remembered Ambrose's first kill, the fallen angels...

He took off running.

**WCWCWC**

It required considerable effort but Ambrose was strong. He deposited Peter's limp body into a crumpled heap on the concrete roof top. Then he emptied the contents of the satchel he'd left there earlier. First the nylon ropes, mallet and three steel pins. He had to work quickly before Burke gained consciousness. He stripped him of his clothes and weapon, arranging them into a neat pile in the corner. First he bound his ankles together. Then hammered the steel pin into the ground, with another length of rope he secured Peter's ankles to the pin. Next he spread both arms out, perpendicular to his body. He tied each wrist securing them to the metal pins. Then Ambrose looked down at his work with a savage satisfaction, he had formed a perfect cross, a perfect crucifixion.

Peter was beginning to stir. He lifted his head. His eyes were wide and he was breathing hard. He tried to struggle against the ropes binding him, but the harder he pulled the more the ropes tightened. He fought against his creeping fear, he fought to stay calm. The sun was bright in the afternoon sky, too bright.

"Snow, whatever you have planned it's not going to work out for you."

"Most of them pleaded and screamed. At least it seemed that way to me, but they really couldn't speak. You're going to die, Agent Burke."

"You think murder is going to place you on the side of the angels?"

"Why do you try to hold him, no cage of yours will ever keep him. Soon he will be free." He opened his satchel and removed his instruments.

**WCWC**

Neal was taking the stairs two at a time. His heart was filling his chest, his legs cramping. He kept climbing. He couldn't let himself imagine what would happen if he failed. He reached the top floor, drew in a deep breath and pushed the steel door open. Glancing around wildly, he finally saw Peter spread eagle a few feet away. His heart nearly stopped. A sense of imminent danger seized him as he spun around to find Ambrose.

"What did you do to him?" he gasped.

"Hello Neal, you made good time," he looked over to Peter.

Neal moved toward Snow, when his foot caught in the pile of clothing. He stumbled as Ambrose took his arm.

"Forgive me," Ambrose jammed the needle into Neal's outstretched arm.

"Neal!" Peter screamed his head keening forward.

"Ambrose, please. You're wrong. "Don't do this. Peter would never do anything to hurt me. You're sick. You need help. You have to listen to me...let him...let him go..."

Ambrose gently eased Neal down next to the pile of clothes at his feet, placed his back against the concrete wall. Everything was moving in slow motion, distant and surreal. He knew there was something he urgently had to do, before he couldn't move at all. He pushed the small injectable concealed in the palm of his hand into his outstretched leg. Neostigmine, the antidote to curare poisoning. God, please let this work he prayed, as his body went still.

Peter knew he had to keep Snow talking, it was his only chance. He knew they would be looking for him and Neal. Neal's anklet was active. It was a matter of time now, time they didn't have.

"So before I die, humor me. Why did you choose Neal?"

"He chose me?"

"Oh right. Let's see, he came to you when you were nine. Problem with that Ambrose, Neal wasn't born when you were nine years old. But then again when you're nuts, a little thing like time is irrelevant."

"You will never understand him. He is beyond your comprehension. It has been preordained by God. His greatness will redeem us. His will."

"If he is as powerful as you say. Why paralyze him? Why drug him?" If you are who you say you are, should you not bow before him?"

Ambrose could hear the sound rumble through his brain, it was deafening. It was just as it was when he was a boy. The great swooping wings, the earth moving beneath his feet. He turned to the sky, narrowing his eyes against the sun.

Peter could see Neal slumped against the far wall. For an instant, the briefest moment he thought he saw his foot jerk slightly. He wasn't completely paralyzed; somehow he was fighting the effects of the drug. He had to give him time. Displaying a bravery he didn't feel, he called out to Ambrose.

"You are the one that wants to hold him, not God."

Things were pulling apart. Ambrose struggled under the weight. Uncertainty, doubt had no place in his universe of belief.

"It's too late for you, Agent Burke. I'll show you God."

Neal tried desperately to move, willing the antidote to circulate faster through his body. He was on fire as the two toxins raged against each other through muscle fiber and nerve endings. He could follow Ambrose with his eyes. He had a scalpel in his hands a medical grade instrument. He was kneeling next to Peter, leaning over him. As he raised the knife, the midday sun glinted off it. Then he heard Peter scream, it pierced him through and through. He felt as if he were in a drowning pool.

Ambrose made the first incision quickly, separating the muscle and tendon in Peter's upper arm. A silent river of red stained the gray concrete. Peter was gasping, sweating and shaking as Ambrose moved to his left. He couldn't fight the screams. The pain was blinding.

Neal felt his arms first as the tingling progressed into his hands. He could spread his fingers. His hand tangled in the pile of clothes and then he saw it. He caught the glint of sun on metal. Peter's gun. He struggled to hold it. It felt heavy in his hand. Then he felt it falling from his grasp, panic was overwhelming him he could barely hold on. The pain was unbearable, but he didn't care. He couldn't drop it, it was their only chance.

He saw the scalpel rise in the air. He steadied himself. He aimed, fired and put a bullet through Ambrose's arm. Confused and shattered, Ambrose looked at him for a long moment, a moment that felt interminable. He was astonished. The sky dimmed as if clouds had momentarily blocked the sun. He looked deeply into Neal's eyes. After a long pause he said.

"In the sight of God, you can't live any other way."

Ambrose stood. Neal watched as he stumbled and staggered toward the ledge. A blinding ray of sunlight flashed across his face. A face lit with joy.

"I forgive you forever, as you forgive me."

"Ambrose! Don't!"

Ambrose Snow turned, arms wide, face turned toward the heavens and jumped. He sailed down to the city below.

"No, no, no..." Neal screamed.

He was weak, his legs trembled, he pushed himself forward. He prayed he wasn't too late, as he reached Peter's still body.

"Please don't die," he remembered saying as a blur of bodies passed him and rushed to his fallen friend.

**WCWCWC**

"He can have visitors now," the young emergency room doctor said to the group assembled outside Peter's room. Jones looked at Neal who was still somewhat wobbly from the after effect of the drugs.

"No, you guys go in. I'll be there in a minute."

He sat back in his chair and laid his head against the wall. He closed his eyes. He didn't see Agent Hall approach.

"How you feeling Caffrey?"

"Like I've been hit by a truck."

"Well they said, all the drugs should clear your system in the next twenty four hours. That was a hell of a thing you did up there on the roof. You saved Burke's life. How did you come up with that antidote for the curare?"

"You said Snow got into my head. I tried to get into his. I guess it paid off."

"Well, you did good. If you ever want a job in Violent Crimes?"

"Thanks, but I' think I'll stick with White Collar."

"Take care of yourself, Caffrey."

"Hey Neal, Peter's asking for you." Jones stepped into the hall.

"How you holding up," Neal smiled.

"That's my line."

"Looks like somebody's feeling better. The doctor says you should make a full recovery."

"Neal, I want to thank you for what you did. I know it was hard..."

"It's OK, I'm OK."

"I don't feel any sense of regret. Snow caused a lot of pain and destruction."

"I know."

"Hey boss, I'm sorry to interrupt. But NYPD just released their report. I'm not sure you want to hear this."

"What is it, Diana?"

"They couldn't locate a body."

"That's impossible. I saw him go over that roof." Neal's pulse was racing. he was trembling.

"What are you saying?" Peter pulled himself up into a siting position, and looked at Neal in disbelief.

Nobody spoke. The room went silent, just the hum of medical equipment. The thought pounded through Neal's brain. _He flew._

**WCWCWC**

**New Jersey Correctional Facility.**

**A week later.**

"Keller, get up. You got a visitor."

"Who is it?"

"Do I look like your event planner?" the guard shrugged.

"Put your hands out. It's an FBI agent. I think his name is Burke. I think that was on the badge he flashed."

"My old friend Peter Burke, about time."

Matthew Keller grinned as he shuffled down the hall, for his meeting.

Ambrose sat patiently, waiting for his visitor.

_The end or just the beginning._

_**Author's note: Thanks so much to all of you for the great reviews and interest in my story. It's been incredibly gratifying and supportive. I hope you enjoyed this last chapter. Good reading.**_


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